GONE TOO LATE: Mourning Jackson felt oddly overdue, as if the sudden death he'd suffered 24 hours earlier were nothing compared to the slow one he'd been undergoing for the previous 24 years.

The day after Michael Jackson died, I was in line at the supermarket. The tabloids were still dumb on the matter, but the aisles were ablaze. A man in front of me was unloading 12 bottles of Pepsi onto the conveyor and going on about it to the cashier, how Jackson had just died, how he wasn't a fan himself, how no one he knew could believe it . . .

". . . . but you know," he said, pausing to make sure he had listeners, "he did it to himself. All those drugs." His tone was one of familiar disappointment, as though years worth of his gentle warnings to Michael had gone ignored — and now look what had happened. Through this, the cashier fixed her glare on the wad of crumply ones he'd handed her, keeping it together until such time as he'd waddled off. When he did, she looked to the ceiling, released a long groan, turned slowly back toward me, smiled, and scanned my Shaw's card.

"I don't like people saying he did it to himself," I offered. "I don't know why I don't like it, but I don't."

"No. I don't like it either," she said. "It was everybody else that did it."

I wanted to ask her whether she felt the same sense of relief that I did. If she thought this mourning felt oddly overdue, as if the sudden death he'd suffered 24 hours earlier were nothing compared to the slow one he'd been undergoing for the past 24 years. But a line was forming behind me, more people buying more Pepsi, so I nodded and left.

At home, the TV was already on in the corner. All day it had been spilling hour after live hour of "everybody else," what Jackson referred to as "the incredible, terrible media," teams upon teams of precision-saddened anchors either leaking speculative sotto voce autopsy augury or getting swept up in selectively forgetful austerity. It was like watching a puppy realize the mouse he'd been using as a toy was now crushed beneath his paw.

That morning, the headlines roared from their boxes, everything from tacky salvos — "JACKO DEAD" (the Sun, the Daily Mirror) — to uniquely atrocious punnage — "FADE TO BLACKO" (from our own Herald). But news goes fast: just a half-hour away from the Holmby Hills home where Jackson collapsed, the LA Times required only two days to buck up (after having to confirm a TMZ scoop) and burp up a tactless blog post from "Dish Rag" columnist Elizabeth Snead, hurrying to wonder "Was Michael Jackson Worth More Dead Than Alive?" — the assertive past tense weirdly suggesting he's already proceeded well beyond death itself.

It's tempting to take all of these media 180s — the clumsily woven scraps of tender tribute, the inadequate compressions of his bio — as proof that this is the same sad media that created Michael Jackson to destroy him while never really getting him, the same media that treated him like Peter Pan while regarding him as Joseph Merrick. But Jackson was also the first important artist who sold out hard and rubbed it in my face, and that was his choice.

The Thriller is gone With the release of Bad (Epic), Michael Jackson ends a recording hiatus of nearly five years. He could have stayed away for 10 years and still not have escaped the shadow of Thriller , the biggest-selling album of all time.

Michael Jackson and his fears At the dead end of a decade when everyone was too discouraged to wonder if pop had a center, Michael Jackson's Off the Wall (1979) gathered up disillusioned factions of fans as confidently as it punted four singles into the Top 10.

Britney Spears and Michael Jackson fight it out Cue up track six on the new Britney (Jive) and prepare yourself for the Technicolor disco flash-back of the year, swooning string section, chunky Nile Rodgers guitar riff, and all. The song's called "Anticipating," and it captures the most famous 19-year-old girl in the world at her guileless, sentimental best.

The Big Hurt: Michael and Steven, RIP Even if I got scooped by everyone else, I believe my inimitable wit will ensure that my reportage goes down in history as the definitive account, so here goes: Michael Jackson died.

Send in the clowns The New York Post got to resurrect its priceless "Wacko Jacko" headline. Barbara Walters scored Super Bowl-level ratings without having to lift a pretty little finger. And Michael Jackson, well, no matter how you slice it, he got screwed royally.

The Straight Dope: Michael Jackson and the Beatles You think an overdubbed Beatles tune could be any weirder than a new Beatles song with John Lennon? Then again, "I Want to Hold You Hand" overdubbed by a guy with a hand on his crotch and his hair on fire would be pretty hard to top. But don't worry, it won't happen, or anyway, it won't happen as a result of Jackson owning the Beatles library.

Abnormal encounter of the suds kind What better place to show off your new brand of beer, Three Stooges, than at the annual Stooges convention in California? That's exactly what Dewey Parsons was doing recently when word came that the convention had to close early to allow a certain VIP to wander through.

BOSTON PRIDE WEEK: OFF THE MAP | June 07, 2010 We may seem a little cranky, but us local gayfolk just love a parade, and we’re actually heartened by this annual influx of brothers and sisters from every state of New England and every letter of our ever-expanding acronym.

THE NEW GAY BARS | June 02, 2010 If I may channel the late, great Estelle Getty for a moment: picture it, Provincetown, 2009, a dashing young man with no discernible tan and an iffy T-Mobile signal languishes bored upon the sprawling patio of the Boatslip Resort.

ARIEL PINK’S HAUNTED GRAFFITI | BEFORE TODAY | June 01, 2010 If the gradual polishing of Ariel Pink’s sound — and it’s not all that much more polished — puts his loyalists at odds with his albums, I count that as good news.

MORE THAN HUMAN | May 26, 2010 It’s hard to talk about Janelle Monáe when your jaw’s fallen off.